


Five More Minutes

by tcwordsmith



Series: Loving a Void [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcwordsmith/pseuds/tcwordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Quit your bitchin'...For all you know, you'll survive this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five More Minutes

Dean hates doing this in his own room, so he’s started booking one of those by-the-hour deals just for these transactions.  He pays, up front and in cash, for two hours even though he knows he only needs one.  Not wanting to waste time, he parks the Impala as close to the room as he can get and drags his passenger inside quickly.

“Quit your bitchin’,” he growls as he doses the vampire with another shot of dead man’s blood, “For all you know, you’ll survive this.” Dean tosses the syringe on the night stand, out of the vampire’s reach, and chains the sorry bastard’s ankle to the bed.

The vampire huffs and snaps his teeth before drawing himself into a sitting position. “Yeah, right, Winchester,” he sneers Dean’s last name, “Like there aren’t rumors floating around. You’re catching things that go bump in the night, but your kill count isn’t getting any higher. They just…Disappear.”  He cracks his neck and licks his lips, “Like when that nest of hunters was workin’ for those demons. You workin’ for demons again, Winchester?”

“Not workin’ for nobody but myself,” Dean growls, throwing himself into the chair at the other end of the room.  His tone is overly insistent, even to his own ears, and unconvincing as always.

He’d like to sharpen his knives or clean his guns, he needs the mindlessness of doing things by muscle memory, but he only brought the machete and the syringe with him. This time he didn’t even bother bringing the other blade in with him; he knows he won’t use it.  Dean likes to keep that one wrapped in towels and stuffed in the depths of the trunk.  The damn thing is the loudest weapon he’s ever travelled with.

Usually, this is all it takes. Catch the monster, book the room, wait a bit, and they show up. They always show up.  But tonight, they seem inclined to wait him out.  Dean doesn’t fucking have time for that, he decides, so he stops quibbling and bows his head.

“Gotta pray to the big man in the sky before you chop off my head now, hunter?” The vampire taunts from the bed. 

“Dearest fuckfaces who art riding a certain angel’s ass a lot closer than anyone ever intended, I pray that you’ll show up and claim your prize,” he mutters, not even flinching when the vampire tries to twist the manacle off his ankle and the chain rattles loudly in the quiet of the room. He lifts his head, message sent after all, and stares down the vampire.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you buddy,” he says, standing up, “They like it when ya fight. Gives ‘em a reason to draw it out longer.” He cracks his neck and loosens his stance.  Dean knows when they’re about to pop in because all the noise around him blanks out like it’s been sucked into a vacuum.

“ _Dean,_ ” they wrap their teeth around his name and the bedside lamp shatters, “ _a touch impatient, aren’t you?_ _Are you truly that eager to see us again so soon?_ ”They step forward and run their meatsuit’s hand along Dean’s jaw.  He clenches his teeth for a moment and feels the collars on his jacket and shirt fray and unravel.

“Just keepin’ to my end of the bargain,” Dean grits out, inclining his head toward the bed and the vampire.

Their grin makes his stomach turn and Dean’s fiercely glad he remembered not to eat before their meeting this time. “You brought it to us alive this time,” they practically coo, “How _thoughtful._ ” A pulsing ache starts up near Dean’s temple and he unclenches his jaw.  They step back from him and over to the bed.

“We would prefer to draw this out,” they say to the vampire, “But, needs must and schedules to keep to—you understand.” The look they level at the vampire is almost regretful.  Dean turns his head away as they rear back their head and their maw opens.  He can’t quite stop the flinch when he hears the vampire’s scream, or the suck, squelch and crack of bones and meat being devoured whole.  Maybe this is the way things go now, but he’s thankful he’s still affected by it all.

After the last of the sucking and squelching dies down, Dean looks over at the bed again.  They’re sitting on the edge of the bed, a small, toothy grin cracking their face. “Now,” they say, using their split tongue to swipe at a bit of blood on their chin, “You’ve got your five minutes, _Winchester._ ” The name drags out of them and across the bedspread, leaving torn fabric and bits of cotton batting in its wake.

Dean straightens and gets out, “Good. Go.” Like he has any real say in the matter. They could just as easily eat him too, and he knows it.  But he thinks he knows why they won’t, too.

“De-Dean,” he knows it’s Cas, it has to be.

“Cas,” he says, taking the two steps and dropping to his knees on the grimy floor by Cas’s legs, “Cas, buddy, I’m right here.”  His hand moves in an aborted gesture, he wants to take Cas’s hand in his, or put his hand on Cas’s thigh, to touch and be touched even just to show he’s here more than he can say. But he won’t.

Cas clears his throat, croaks out, “Y-you have to—the blade. Quickly.” Dean’s face darkens as he looks into Castiel’s. Cas averts his eyes, twists his hands around one another and tries to look around, as if Dean’s got the blade out and waiting.

Sometimes, this whole fucked up thing makes Dean so unbearably angry. He’s compromising his everything, because he can’t help himself, because he can’t help anyone anymore, and all for what? Five minutes that aborts around the two minute mark because Cas won’t look him in the eyes, won’t stop trying to insist there’s only one way out of this. As if everyone involved in this horrifying tale isn’t acutely aware of what exactly Dean will and will never do.  It’s not like he doesn’t know his duty, for fuck’s sake, he was born to do his job.

“Cas…You—you can’t, you gotta stop askin’…I can’t, Cas,” and he means it, and Cas knows he means it, and they look anywhere but at each other and it’s all he can do not to reach out and  _take._ Dean finds the strength somewhere because that’s not the point, not now.  He won’t look at his watch, so he chances another look at the ma-ang-Cas before him.

Cas is shaking slightly, probably being dragged from where ever he hides inside the vessel now is a shock to him, Dean guesses. “Dean…I-you have an obligat-“

Dean cuts him off, “I’m not the fucking Righteous Man anymore, Cas.  Don’t talk to me about fucking obligation.  I—I haven’t been the Righteous Man in a long fucking time. My only job is to figure out how to fix this.” And oh god he knows that was the wrong thing to say, _it—they_  can never resist and he’s never going to get a full five minutes at this rate.

He’s not wrong. “ _It’s not broken, Dean_ ,” the voice is carefully modulated, trying to mimic Cas’s, but Dean can tell. He can always tell. The rasp of a hiss at the edges of each word, how it all echoes hollowly around him, the fact that they never manage to stick with it and a screech will accompany whatever they say next.  The mirror over the table shatters and little tinkling bits of mirror find their way to the floor.  Dean stands, refusing to respond to the taunt in their voice, and punches out at the wall beside the bed. A ringing chuckle worms its way into his brain as they watch, amusement rising in their eyes and their mouth splitting their face in an unbearable grin.

Dean knows better than to try and demand they bring Cas back for the rest of the time. They did that once and it’s not something he likes to dwell on.  He squares his shoulders and licks his lips.  It’s not been that long, but he knows better than to try and leave without their say-so.

The amused smile curls into a smirk, “ _Good boy_ ,” they murmur, the bed frame cracks loudly, two pillows burst and scatter more cotton batting everywhere.  He cringes, he knows somewhere in him what they think he is, and he fights with what he has left against that assumption. “ _Darling boy. Vampires are so…Dusty, ancient bones, dry blood. Bring us something…_ _Fresh_ _next time. We shall be in…_ _Touch._ ” The carpet curls off the cement floor by the door and the last light bulb in the room shatters out, drenching them in so much darkness.

Dean knows he should know what’s coming, but the gentle caress, the film of the black ooze left in its wake, it’s always a surprise. It’s always a deep, flinch-worthy violation.  He shudders and before he can say anything, about how he’s not their dog, how he won’t bring them anything fucking _fresh,_  they’ve already taken their leave.

He can’t lie very well anymore anyway.


End file.
